Holiday Housebreaker
by Shimegami-chan
Summary: One-shot. Little Duster had always wondered why Santa never came to their house on Christmas. Written for the Starmen dot net 2008 Holiday Funfest.


**Holiday Housebreaker**

"Santa Claus is definitely real, I know it," Paul proclaimed, without taking his eyes off the drawing he was busily working on. Using crayons, he had meticulously created on the paper a waxy round figure with reddened cheeks, topped with an oversized hat. The others looked on with interest, their own work forgotten; Teacher was off helping one of the older children with her algebra.

"No way," said Biff, his ten-year-old fists curled at his side. "My dad said there was no such thing."

"Your dad is crazy," Tessie shot back, her hands on her hips. Her new Christmas dress, plaid with a ruffle at the bottom, flounced along with her. Her crayons lay in a heap on the table, forgotten.

"No! Biff is right," Bateau argued. "There's no way one person could ever get into all the houses in Tazmily in one night without us hearing. And through the fireplace! He'd be burnt." A few other children nodded their agreement, though they hung back, watching the scene as it unfolded.

Though he knew better, Duster didn't say anything. Most of the children were older than him, at a scant seven years of age, and would be unlikely to believe anything he might say about the subject. Plus, he was pretty sure what he wanted to say would violate the secret Thief Code. Though, wasn't it obvious that this Santa Claus _had _to be a thief? Nobody else would be able to sneak into all the houses without being detected. And, he thought, that had to be the only reason why Santa Claus had never come to Duster's house. That was against the Code, he had decided, and that had to be why all the other children received presents at this time of year, when he, Duster, had never experienced such a thing.

That wasn't to say that Duster didn't know about or like Christmas. He actually liked it very much; when the weather in Tazmily was turning cold, he knew that this wonderful time was coming. He would go through the town square every day, waiting for the special tree to be brought in from the Sunshine Forest. The older children would be allowed to go with Issac to choose the tree that would be cut, and help him carry it back to the village. When Issac and Lighter had set it up in the middle of the square, the families would all bring things to decorate with; scraps of ribbon and hand-crafted ornaments, hard candies wrapped in plastic, thin candles affixed to their dishes with wax. That night, the candles would all be lit at dusk, and the villagers would gather in front of the tree to sing and drink hot cocoa from Nan's big cast-iron pot. With the firelight reflecting off the silver decorations and shiny ribbons, as though they moved about on their branches, it had come to be called the Gypsy Tree.

Duster had never been allowed to participate in this ritual, but he had climbed up onto the roof when his father had thought him asleep, and seen the still-twinkling flames from the house-top and heard the soft strains of the adults' singing voices. He envied the other children, who went home from school excited about the Gypsy Tree and Santa Claus, but no one said "see you tonight!" or "come over tomorrow!" to Duster as they told each other. It seemed it was accepted that Duster was unapproachable; set apart by his quiet personality, slowness to learn and his overbearing father. Even the children who were the same age as him were far ahead of him in lessons. No one asked him to come play or spoke to him as they unwrapped their lunch pails at noon.

"A thief does not easily trust," his father had admonished when Duster complained. "You must never forget that you are different."

Duster never forgot this for a moment. When the other children were eating lunch together, when they ran and played in the square, when they gathered outside Miss Brenda's house to bring her flowers for her desk, he always wandered home alone. He was not allowed to stay after school for any reason, even when Miss Brenda insisted that she was going to need extra time to get him caught up with the others. Wess had simply _harrumphed _and responded that she hardly needed to devote her time to his idiot son. She had never asked again, and Duster continued to come home each day when Leder rang the three o'clock bell, though today he lingered near the well, knowing that the Gypsy Tree was due to appear soon. His classmates had rushed off to meet Isaac, disappearing down the well-worn path before Miss Brenda bade them a proper good-bye.

Though he ached to follow them, today Duster was determined to find out if his theory about Santa Claus was true. His father might be harsh, but he valued honesty, and was truthful with his son. Duster knew that Wess would tell him openly. So after walking home slowly with a light snow just beginning to fall on Tazmily, when he had shuffled through the door and slung his pile of books onto the table, he found his father in the basement, doing calisthenics. "Dad?"

"You're late," Wess responded without batting an eye. "I had intended to take you to the waterfall today for endurance training."

"Dad, it's snowing," Duster said in a small voice.

"That was my point."

Duster hung back in the doorway, watching his father stretch. "Can I ask you something?"

Wess's movements came to a slow stop, and he set down the weights he was carrying. "What's wrong?"

"Is Santa Claus a thief?"

Something flickered across Wess' face. "Why are you asking something like that?"

"Santa Claus goes to all the houses in the village in one night," Duster said hesitantly. "Could he really do that if he wasn't a thief?" His father didn't say anything, so Duster rushed on, "And he never comes to our house, so it makes perfect sense, right? 'One thief must never enter the house of another uninvited'. It's the Code."

"Maybe you _have _retained some of what I've taught you."

Duster wasn't sure if Wess was complimenting him or not, so he decided not to reply, just looked at his father questioningly. "So I'm right?"

"This isn't the time, boy. Change your clothes. We're training before dark."

"But tonight's..."

"Yes." Wess slipped past him, up the stairs. "If we're back before nightfall, perhaps I'll consider taking you to see the Gypsy Tree."

Duster's heart began to beat fast, and he hurried to the oak chest to change out of his school clothes. When he was outfitted in his black turtleneck, pants, gloves and soft leather boots, he ran upstairs to join his father, who was dressed similarly, but with a bag of tools knotted at his waist. Wess was already standing at the door, waiting, with his perpetual frown.

Duster followed his father to the waterfall north of Tazmily, sneaking past the knots of villagers who gathered in front of their houses, marveling at the snowfall, which had become quite heavy. Tazmily enjoyed mild winters and long, warm summers, so snow before January was rare. The younger children ran about and caught fat snowflakes on their tongues.

Despite the chill, the snow that was beginning to gather on the ground and in his brown hair made training more interesting rather than uncomfortable, and Duster endured it all with a smile. He dug wall staples into the cliff face, the cold of the steel seeping through his thin gloves, and darted across the tiny rocks protruding from the rushing river without hesitating. He battled the moles and the eagles that lurked on the cliff face, practicing sneak attacks. Dusk had fallen before long, and Duster kept on, imagining the candles on the Gypsy Tree flickering brightly. He was cold, but he had stopped noticing.

Wess, ever stern, stood by without comment even when his son performed brilliantly against a crag lizard, only shouting orders when Duster began to tire. "Idiot! You're wide open! Guard your right flank!"

"Yes," the child wheezed, swinging around to ward off an approaching bat.

"You're slow today," His father insisted, frowning. "Ten more across the river."

"Yes, Dad," Duster agreed without argument, dispatching the bat, before loping across the river again. The sun had now set completely, and his vision was dulled by the shine of the moon on the newly-fallen snow, but he focused intently on each rock as he leapt across with blinding speed.

"Tuck your shoulders in!" Wess barked sharply.

Duster started at the command, and shifted his weight a little too suddenly, his booted foot landing half a centimeter off target on the next stone. Slick with melted snow, the rock could not offer enough purchase, and his small foot slid right off and plunged into the ice-cold river. He immediately tried to correct his balance by reaching out a hand for the next stone, but the awkward angle caused him to tumble headfirst into the river, his right ankle coming down sharply on another stone. Duster's stomach heaved at the shock of being thrown into the water, and he breathed in a lungful of the river. He was usually a skilled swimmer, but he had lost all feeling in his right leg, and panic caused him to freeze up when he realized he could not tell up from down. The river, swelling from the snow and churned by the foot of the waterfall, forced him downstream along with it. He swam desperately in the direction he thought was upward, completely forgetting the heavy staples hanging from his belt, until he struck the rocky bottom of the river rather than the surface, and became so confused that he stopped swimming for a long moment, head pounding. He wanted to cry out to his father. _Dad...you wouldn't just leave me here, would you?_

Duster was young enough yet that he could easily believe this to be true, and so he began to fight his way to the surface once again, but his limbs had almost entirely lost feeling, and a moment later he sunk like a stone to the bottom of the river.

When Duster awoke, he was lying down, comfortably warm and could hear many voices, and his first thought was that he had died after all and went to the place where his mother was, where everyone lived happily all together in the clouds. His own name was being repeated again and again by different people. Who could they be, Duster wondered? Aside from his mother, he had never known anyone who died before. But maybe everyone here knew him already and were welcoming him. He could smell something sweet, something that made his mouth water, so he opened his eyes, and there he saw dozens of flickering, dancing lights. His vision doubled for a second, and Duster finally realized that this could not be that place in the sky, for his head and his ankle throbbed terribly, and this apparition before him could only be the Gypsy Tree. His teacher sat beside him with her shawl around her shoulders, and when she saw he had awoken, she smiled encouragingly. "Duster? How do you feel?"

"I...I'm okay," he responded, still disoriented. Somehow he had lived. His father had decided to save him after all. "My foot hurts."

Miss Brenda clucked in a motherly way and patted his shoulder, which was cocooned in grey wool blankets. He seemed to be wearing one of his father's flannel shirts. "I'm sorry dear, but you've broken it. Your father fixed you up with a splint, but you'll have to take it easy for a while."

"Oh." The boy knew this was bad news. His thief training would suffer if he couldn't walk. "Sorry."

"Oh, Duster. You don't need to _apologize._ Let me call Wess over, he's been worried sick."

Somehow Duster doubted this, but Miss Brenda left his side, and he stared at the candles on the tree for a few moments. The tree, he thought with some satisfaction. He had finally gotten to see the tree up close.

As usual, Wess' approach was stealthy as a cat's, and Duster's senses were still dulled. He jumped when his father appeared suddenly near his head, and sat up so quickly he became dizzy. Some of the blankets fell away. "Dad."

"Boy," Wess said gruffly, thrusting a hot ceramic mug into Duster's hands. "You gave me a fright."

"I'm sorry..."

Wess sat down on the pallet beside his son. He had changed into normal clothes at some point, though Duster couldn't imagine when. Perhaps this, too, was a Secret Thief Art. "No. It was my fault."

"But..."

"Don't argue with me," Wess said, his tone admonishing but his voice soft. "I pushed you too hard. Now you have a painful few weeks ahead of you. I will accept the blame for this one."

Duster didn't know what to say, so he stared straight ahead, conscious of the other village children singing gaily on the other side of the bonfire. He set down the drink on the ground in front of them. The scent of whatever was in the mug was sweet and cinnamony, and the ache in his head along with the warmth of the blankets and fire were making him drowsy. Duster leaned against his father, relieved when Wess did not make some remark about being coddled. It seemed the accident had at least earned him some respite from that. He wondered if it were perhaps not such a bad thing after all.

"Duster, Santa Claus is, indeed, a thief," he heard his father murmur after his eyes had fallen closed. "Since you've found him out, maybe we can put aside the Code this year."

How wonderful! Perhaps he was already dreaming all this good fortune, Duster thought, so he nuzzled further into the blankets, and soon everything went comfortably black.

When Wess sensed his son was once again unconscious, he stood and easily gathered Duster, blankets and all, into his arms. Brenda returned and hovered over them, the firelight glinting off her spectacles. "How is he?"

"He'll be fine," Wess replied shortly, sparing a smile for her kindness. "Thank you."

"No, not at all."

Some of the other villagers had come up behind her to check on the boy. Nan picked up the mug from the ground, and Bronson took his wet clothing down off the line. The small party followed Wess away from the town square, across the bridge and into his house, where they built a fire in the fireplace and tucked Duster into bed. Betsy pressed a basket of fruit and candy into Wess' hands and smiled encouragingly. When they left, he thanked them again, and after making himself a cup of strong tea, sat down at the table.

He watched over his son from there, more than a little concerned with the injury Duster had inflicted on himself. Wess had some medical knowledge, but Tazmily had been without a doctor since old Scamp had taken to his own sick bed, and he worried that their actions tonight might leave Duster handicapped. A thief's best asset was his ability to run away, after all.

Duster slept on, however, and instead of grunts of pain, a contented sigh would occasionally escape from his lips. Wess suppressed a begrudging smile each time this happened. It was just like Duster to smile when he rightfully ought to be crying. Wess had even intended to allow the boy to sulk awhile, but his son, moron though he might be, occasionally surprised him.

When the tea was stone cold and the flames had nearly died out, Wess hung one of his own socks on a nail at the foot of the bed, put an orange in the toe and filled it with the candy the neighbors had brought. He swept aside the ashes of the fire and allowed a few to flutter onto the floorboards beyond the hearth. In the bed, Duster turned over in his sleep, mumbling as he dreamed – Santa Claus this and that. Wess _harrumphed._

He supposed it couldn't hurt to let the boy be a child for another few years, at least on Christmas.


End file.
